


A Job Well Done

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is fond, Canon typical bickerflirting, Celebrations, Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Crowley's fuck shit up jacket, Drinking, Gen, POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unleash the Chaos, bickerflirting, the m25
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 03:22:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29586480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: Aziraphale is enjoying a quiet night in the bookshop when a slightly drunk, very pleased demon drops in unannounced to share the news of his latest success. Driving around London will never be the same again.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 94
Collections: Crowley's Demonic Side, Unleash The Chaos - Zine Fics and Art





	A Job Well Done

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Unleash The Chaos zine, a love letter to Crowley's marvellous Fuck Shit Up jacket.

The front door of the bookshop crashes open with a force that threatens to knock the little bell right off the wall. As Aziraphale clearly remembers locking that door after seeing out his last customer some 10 hours previous, he doesn’t so much as look up from his book at the noise.

“Angel!” Crowley calls from the shop floor, “Angel, did you know how very brilliant I am?”

He sounds delighted with himself and perhaps a little drunk. Aziraphale takes a moment to decide whether he’s going to be annoyed about the interruption or pleased for the company.

As soon as Crowley’s grinning face appears around the side of the shelves that shield Aziraphale from the rest of the shop, the decision is made for him. The boyish glee that is practically radiating off Crowley is far too infectious for Aziraphale to resist.

“I’ve heard rumours of your brilliance,” Aziraphale says, gesturing to the sofa for Crowley to make himself comfortable. “I assume you’ve done something especially fiendish to cause this celebratory mood?”

Crowley slinks over to the sofa and collapses across it. It’s the artless sprawl of a demon who is too pleased with himself to be self-conscious and, judging by the empty bottle of wine clutched in his hand, the wrong side of tipsy. Aziraphale smiles fondly as Crowley arranges his limbs into something that must be more comfortable than it appears.

“Wait until you hear about it,” Crowley teases, “there’ll be no thwarting this one!”

Aziraphale closes his book and sets it on the desk beside him, his movements deliberate and slow as he refuses to give in to Crowley’s influence.

“What sort of drink am I going to require for this story?” he asks as he gets to his feet.

“Sssomething ssssparkling,” Crowley hisses, “we’re ssscelebrating.”

Reaching to take Crowley’s empty bottle, Aziraphale starts thinking through the contents of his wine cellar in order to make a suitable selection. By the time he returns with a fresh bottle and two champagne flutes, Crowley has thrown one muddy leg over the back of the sofa and made no progress towards taking off his jacket.

Aziraphale sets the glasses down on top of the trunk that serves as a coffee table and makes short work of the foil and wire cage covering the cork.

“So, what’s the occasion?” he asks as he begins to loosen the cork, twisting the bottle slowly away.

“The M25!” Crowley exclaims, “It’s finally all come together!”

Aziraphale scrunches his nose in concentration and the cork comes free with a satisfying pop. He pours two glasses and hands one to Crowley before speaking again.

“That ghastly ring road? Your work, was it?” Aziraphale asks as he settles back into his chair.

Crowley swings his feet back to the ground, sitting up in a motion so fluid that it defies the existence of his skeleton. How he doesn’t spill a drop of his champagne is a mystery, or perhaps, more accurately, a miracle.

“Wasn’t, at least, not to start with,” Crowley says cryptically, “but then I had an idea.”

Sitting upright, he’s positively swamped in his ridiculous jacket. The sleeves flop over his hands if he doesn’t keep pushing them up and the shoulders puff up around his ears as soon as he slouches. The orange yoke clashes horribly with Crowley’s hair and complexion, and Aziraphale can not imagine a world where Crowley would wear reflective tape as a fashion choice. The bottom of the jacket and Crowley’s legs are filthy with mud splatters, something else that Aziraphale is choosing to interpret as a sign of Crowley’s happiness. He’s too pleased with himself to worry about how he looks for once.

Eventually, Aziraphale becomes aware that Crowley is waiting for him to say something. Tearing himself out of the careful consideration of Crowley’s attire, he searches for his line in this dialogue.

“Ah, what devilish idea did you have, my dear?”

Crowley leans in closer, touching his glass to Aziraphale’s in a little toast.

“Odegra,” he says simply, grinning as widely as ever.

Aziraphale’s memory reels, searching for a reason why the word made him uneasy.

“Oh, Crowley,” he says after a moment, his tone gently rebuking, “The Black Priesthood of Ancient Mu?”

Crowley snorts and tries to cover it by taking a sip of champagne.

“Rusty on the French, but you can remember an obscure occult language with startling accuracy,” Crowley teases, “But yeah, those guys. I saw the plans for the motorway and I just realised how close it was already. The humans had done most of the work for me!”

Aziraphale doesn’t know if he should be pleased for Crowley or cross with him. In truth, he’s somewhere in between, both sharing his friend’s glee and disapproving of the cause.

“That’s a fairly large project to tackle on your own, Crowley,” Aziraphale says, trying to keep his voice neutral. “I’m sure you’re dying to tell me all about how you managed it.”

This is precisely the right thing to say, as it happens. Crowley throws back half his glass and leaps to his feet, apparently needing more of a stage for his triumph.

“It has been a challenge, but, damn, I am just too good to give up! The bit around Reigate was a bugger; had to bribe a couple of council members to get that through. Oh, and the Dartford Crossing?” Crowley is in his element, gesturing wildly between taking sips of his drink. “The Dartford bloody Crossing, angel, it’s going to be awful. People will be cursing it for decades. I had to break into the Ministry for Transport myself, hack into their computer system, and redraw a whole section through Kent and Essex to make it work.”

Aziraphale nods, smiling despite himself.

“It sounds thoroughly demonic, far beyond my ability to thwart.”

Crowley beams at him, pushing his sunglasses up into his hair. There’s champagne caught in his moustache, making it cling wetly to his lip.

“Told you I was brilliant,” Crowley says. He lifts his glass to his mouth only to find it empty. Aziraphale offers the bottle for a refill.

“I never doubted it for a second,” Aziraphale says warmly. “This sounds like it’s taken some time and planning, what makes tonight the night we’re celebrating?”

“Just did the last bit, didn’t I?” Crowley preens, “The last piece of the puzzle.”

Aziraphale gives him another careful once over, taking in the dirt caked to his boots, the jacket still hanging off his shoulders, and the rosiness about his cheeks.

“So, what was it, this last piece?” Aziraphale asks, all innocent enquiry, “A clandestine bribe? Some seedy blackmail? Another daring break-in at the Ministry? I’m simply dying to know.”

Crowley is swaying gently where he stands, his eyes not quite focused.

“Not quite,” he mumbles, the wind apparently knocked out of his sails.

“No? I’m sure it was something frightfully clever and impressive, nonetheless.”

Crowley glares at Aziraphale before taking a swig of champagne right from the bottle and ignoring the full glass in his other hand. Aziraphale doesn’t tut, doesn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at Crowley’s uncouth behaviour. He keeps his face perfectly still and pleasantly expectant.

“Look, the men on the Buckinghamshire planning committee are real bastards, right?” Crowley starts to explain, Aziraphale merely nods. “I bribed, I infiltrated, I tempted, but they would just not budge as much as I needed. So, I had to take matters into my own hands.”

Aziraphale blinks benignly, refusing to fill Crowley’s silence.

“You really know how to kill a mood,” Crowley grumbles. His complaint lacks any real bite, he’s just sore about not getting to maintain his James Bond fantasy, Aziraphale thinks. “I went out to the worksite, alright? I’ve spent the night moving their bloody markers across a field. I had to climb over three fences to get there. A cow licked me, Aziraphale, a cow!” He collapses back onto the sofa as he finishes.

Aziraphale leans forward to reclaim the bottle, pouring himself a top-up.

“I admire your commitment, Crowley,” Aziraphale says brightly, watching Crowley perk up under his approval. “Of course, I can’t say I’m keen on this project of yours but I can certainly appreciate good work when I see it.”

Crowley’s smile makes a reappearance, a little less bright than before but still a joy to behold.

“Yeah?” he asks. Aziraphale indulges him.

“Oh yes, you’ve been very wily with this, keeping it from me for this long. And your dedication to completing the project? Highly admirable, I haven’t seen you this enthused since, oh, the invention of the motorcar!”

Crowley relaxes into something a bit more like his usual sprawl.

“Thanks, angel,” he offers out his glass again. Aziraphale clinks his own against it. “The M25.”

“The M25 and a job well done,” Aziraphale says in return. “Now, will you please do something about all the mud you’ve been traipsing around?”

  
  



End file.
